[ Angels don't dream because angels don't sleep. They don't need to. Their bodies don't require it and their minds are machine designed to follow orders, not to have complex moral dilemmas in need of untangling in dreams each night. While Castiel sleeps, he returns to Heaven. He throws himself at the feet of his superiors and begs forgiveness for the murders of his kin. They accept him back into their fold. They demand allegiance to Michael, and he gives it. He doesn't understand why he gives it, until there is Michael in Dean's skin, but that isn't Dean, Dean is gone.
Castiel wakes with a deep inhale. The room is dark and quiet. There's heat against his side and a weight pressing down on his chest, and for a panicked moment, he thinks he was wounded more terribly than his grace could heal. The fear is instantaneous and just as quickly gone as he realizes with a flood of warmth that it's Dean pressed against him. The weight of Dean's head on his collar and soft, sleepy exhales against his chest has Castiel's heart pounding so quickly that he worries Dean might hear it. His chest aches with affection. "Behold, you are beautiful, my love; behold, you are beautiful."
He should wake Dean, now that he himself is awake. Even though it's still dark through the curtained windows and beyond, Dean would prefer to be roused. Castiel knows Dean's rules about personal space and privacy, and watching him sleep is explicitly against them. He shouldn't be lingering like this, allowing himself to revel in how the worry lines around Dean's eyes are smoothed out and how beautifully at peace he looks away from a world that has been unkind. He absolutely should not touch Dean without permission, but he'd like to. He'd like to trace his lips and his jaw, and tilt up his chin, and wake Dean from his sleep with a kiss, like in a children's story. Castiel lifts his hand from the bed, and hesitates, and lays it back at his side. ]
Dean.
[ His voice is rusted and thick with disuse, though a more honest part of him wonders if he isn't being quiet because he'd prefer if Dean continued to sleep against him, just like this. He presses his face to Dean's hair, and there's a different smell to the soap, now, though he can't tell the difference on a molecular level, so his grace must not be as recovered as he'd hoped. All he can tell is that it's a clean smell, a pleasant one, that if he ever comes across it again will always remind him of Dean's weight and his warmth and his kindness. ]
wait how did you know that word vomit is my kink
Castiel wakes with a deep inhale. The room is dark and quiet. There's heat against his side and a weight pressing down on his chest, and for a panicked moment, he thinks he was wounded more terribly than his grace could heal. The fear is instantaneous and just as quickly gone as he realizes with a flood of warmth that it's Dean pressed against him. The weight of Dean's head on his collar and soft, sleepy exhales against his chest has Castiel's heart pounding so quickly that he worries Dean might hear it. His chest aches with affection. "Behold, you are beautiful, my love; behold, you are beautiful."
He should wake Dean, now that he himself is awake. Even though it's still dark through the curtained windows and beyond, Dean would prefer to be roused. Castiel knows Dean's rules about personal space and privacy, and watching him sleep is explicitly against them. He shouldn't be lingering like this, allowing himself to revel in how the worry lines around Dean's eyes are smoothed out and how beautifully at peace he looks away from a world that has been unkind. He absolutely should not touch Dean without permission, but he'd like to. He'd like to trace his lips and his jaw, and tilt up his chin, and wake Dean from his sleep with a kiss, like in a children's story. Castiel lifts his hand from the bed, and hesitates, and lays it back at his side. ]
Dean.
[ His voice is rusted and thick with disuse, though a more honest part of him wonders if he isn't being quiet because he'd prefer if Dean continued to sleep against him, just like this. He presses his face to Dean's hair, and there's a different smell to the soap, now, though he can't tell the difference on a molecular level, so his grace must not be as recovered as he'd hoped. All he can tell is that it's a clean smell, a pleasant one, that if he ever comes across it again will always remind him of Dean's weight and his warmth and his kindness. ]
Dean, are you awake?